The saga begins

16 November 2005

As always, I'm in a hurry on my way to TPA. I know that it's one of the more efficient airports I've ever dealt with; only CMH is a quicker park-to-the-gate run. Yet I'm always beset with concern that I'll be pulled aside for a strip search, or there will be a longer-than-usual line at security, or that my luggage will cause some sort of TSA problem. So when I pull up to the terminal long-term parking and realize TPA has eliminated it, forcing me to park at the remote (and by remote, at TPA, they mean BFE) lot. As I pull into the new structure, a silver Honda pulls in next to me. It's the Herrmannator, my roommate for the next five days. His flight to Boston leaves an hour after mine, but unlike mine, it's nonstop -- meaning he'll end up bumming around Beantown for a while before I get there to check us in to the hotel. He's cool with that, and we part at our respective concourses.

We're on our way to the 91st annual convention of the National Communication Association. I traditionally refer to NCA as "my favorite week of the year," due to it being the one time I get to see many of my best friends in the world. NCA plays a variety of roles in my professional and social universe: it's where job interviews take place, grad school recruiting runs rampant, occasional academic papers are presented, and open drunkenness is not only permitted, but expected. Past NCAs have found me with eight female friends in a sex club in New Orleans, vomiting over the edge of a boat while deep-sea fishing in Miami Beach, behind the wheel of a stranger's coupe tearing through the streets of Atlanta, and slamming Old Styles with cute Texan coeds in Chicago's dive bars. For a hypersocial being like myself, stuck in the rut of social doldrums that is Tampa, NCA is an annual cocoon emergence that I anticipate with vigor.

I'm flying Delta today. This detail is significant. While I'm not a "frequent flyer," as compared to the thousands of businessmen and -women who crisscross our fine nation every day, I have spent the past five years in the air more than the average citizen. I've always flown NWA, not because 911 Is A Joke but because they're my frequent flyer carrier. Alternatively, I've flown only on Southwest (once, an ill-fated 9/14/01 flight to Chicago to visit berrydip that ended up being turned around due to MDW suddenly closing [bomb threat]) or NWA codeshare partner Continental. Delta is also a codeshare partner, but I've been quite vocally opposed to flying Delta since an April 2002 incident in which they stranded myself and Ryan in Salt Lake City necessitating an overnight 750-mile drive across the Rockies en route to Rapid City. The debacle concluded in my pledging to never again fly Delta.

Monetary issues led me to rescind that pledge, and so I find myself in my comfortable exit row aisle seat, working the Wednesday NY Times crossword and anticipating another eventful series of flights alongside the unique and talkative individuals who tend to accompany my travel.

Instead, I'm seated next to very large, very odorous, and very sleepy men whom are apparently the driving economic force in our great nation.

Upon my arrival at Logan, I collect my garment bag and board the shuttle to Boston's famed "T" subway system. I'd memorized the map so as to appear at least slightly familiar, and I board the blue line headed toward the Back Bay. At Government Center I hop off, wait for the Orange Line, and carefully avoid a homeless (I assume by his scraggly beard and collection of apocalyptic literature) man screaming "How Much Is That Doggy In The Window" and offering requests "for a modest fee." He has no takers. What I fail to realize is that I am boarding the Orange line at 5:30 pm, and my bags will create quite the space problem upon the arrival of thousands of commuters headed home. Stuffed like a Sheboygan bratwurst in a surprisingly clean car, I take advantage of the situation to do a bit of subway ethnography.

Immediately, I notice a significantly diminished number of blondes on my subway train. Perhaps 18 months in Florida have led me to forget that not everyone bleaches their hair. The brunette hipsters with their iPods and the redheaded young businesswomen in their earthtone Kaspers and Anne Kleins endear me to a city I've only yet seen the literal underbelly of. Boston is one of the few major U.S. cities I've yet to visit in my years of travel, and with its myriad colleges and universities I have to consider it a possible career destination. So far, I approve. The women here are hot.

At Back Bay I push my way through to the subway doors, hop off, and climb the stairs where I'm slugged with a cold breeze that penetrates the fibers of my brown tweed jacket. It feels like home, and I smile. I know my subway stop is only a block from the Hilton, and I scan the horizon looking for its distinctive logo gleaming in the distance. It's nowhere to be seen. My attempt to gain my bearings in more traditional methods is foiled by the dark, cloudy sky obscuring any celestial objects to utilize for navigational purposes. I'm quite positive I need to go a block west and am determined to find my hotel with pure pluck.

I head toward what looks like a series of tall buildings that might be hotels. A girl with black plastic emo glasses, a grey toque, and Jagermeister-puke-colored scarf stops, looks at me, and says, "That bag is way too heavy." She's probably right, as my impeccable sense of fashion (NCA is the only time of year I get to wear the suits that hearken back to a career in which they were necessary) has required me to pack the nines. I laugh, respond with some kind of meatheaded hypermasculine response, and ignore the opportunity to ask directions. I continue on in a similar manner for another half hour. Finally, I find one of the large, glassed-in maps that tend to dot metropolis street corners. While attempting to locate myself, a lithe, attractive brunette in yet another business suit approaches me.

"You look lost."
"Yeah, you know, I was, but I think I know where I'm going now. Thanks."

She walks away, and I wonder why I didn't feign ignorance just for the sake of conversation. I've never been good at feigning ignorance; I'm ignorant enough as it is.

A half hour later I'm checking into the Hilton Back Bay, trading 140,000 of my hard-earned HHonors points for four nights of relative luxury. I've always found it queer how the more expensive a hotel, the fewer amenities are provided free-of-charge. The $39 room at a Days Inn features free local calls, HBO, and even a warm breakfast. My hotel will offer none of these things, save a gorgeous 26th-floor view of the Christian Science complex to the south and all of the sprawling, historic land that is Boston. I will admire the view for fifteen seconds.

The Herrmannator and I drop off our bags, collect some cash, and head out in search of trouble... but first, food. On our short walk to the Marriott, home base for NCA, we run into a USF colleague and his partner. Herrmannator joins them and I continue toward the Marriott. Along the way, I see Mariaelena, one of the new faculty members in my department. She is, as always, representing her Italian heritage in a stunning outfit, topped off with what must be this season's most fashionable coat. (VERY longtime readers remember my first meeting with Mariaelena, during her interview, eleven months ago.)

I roll into the swarm of humanity wandering around the lobbies of the Marriott. Almost immediately, I run into my dear friends the Carmack Twins. Formerly of Truman State, and now holding graduate degrees from my two alma maters Ohio (Heather) and EMU (Amy) I simply adore them, and we quickly agree to have dinner -- though not after stopping by the Forensics Organizations party upstairs. I snag a Heineken and commence the litany of drinking. I shake some hands, greet some old friends, unspool the "my dissertation is about poker" story a half-dozen times, then run out with the Twins to grab a few more OU grad students and make our way to Macaroni Grille.

A shrimp pasta and two Sierra Nevada Pale Ales later, the twins head to bed and I head back to the Marriott to find some more friends. At the lobby bar, most of my department's faculty members and a dozen grad students are collected around tables with other superstars of the symbolic interaction world, and I find the Herrmannator. I order a few Harpoon IPAs, not quite knowing what they are, but falling immediately in love with them. The party breaks up around one a.m. and the Herrmannator and I make our way back toward the Hilton. I'm not done drinking, though, and either is he. I'd had a goal of hitting up the Bukowski Tavern next door since reading about it on Citysearch. Named after the hard-drinking literary hero of mine, it was a must that I check it out.

We show up to the door where a beefy bouncer waited, smirking. He asks for my ID, and I hand it over.

"You're not getting in here."
"Huh?"
"You're too drunk."
I turn to the Herrmannator.
"Too drunk, he says. I've only had three beers, and that's too drunk? THIS IS BOSTON!"
"You're not getting into this bar," the bouncer iterates.
"YOUR BAR IS NAMED AFTER CHARLES BUKOWSKI AND YOU THINK I'M TOO DRUNK?"
He hands me back my ID.
"He thinks I'm too drunk! Bukowski Tavern thinks I'm too drunk. That's pretty f*ckin' ironic, don't you think, Herrmannator?"
Herrmannator shrugs.

As we walk away, I silently swear to do whatever is necessary to gain entrance, at some point, to Bukowski Tavern. Still thirsty, we go next door to Kings, a swanky but cheesy restaurant/pool hall/bowling alley that would be the site of our USF party the next evening. We descend the steps of the subterranean establishment and the rotund bouncer has no qualms about my previous drinking.

It's Boston, after all. They defined the art.